Moving On
by TheBatKid
Summary: Richard doesn't know what he's doing. He's travelled all over the world, searching for something that he can belong to. What happens when he comes to Atlanta? Will he find a place to stay, or will he die like all the others?
1. Chapter 1

Moving On

It was another day in paradise; the sun was shining down, the roads were long and empty, luscious bounties of woodland surrounded them...and the rotting corpses kept their distance.

Richard had been on the run for a good year now, just making his way around the world. Once a man of the cloth, he'd abandoned those childish values he'd held, instead content with a fiery red vehicle and a bottle of whiskey. His expedition went on though, his search for a new civilisation; the hope for freedom was alive within him, even after the death of his family.

A wife, two sons. It wasn't a big family, not by any means, but that didn't stop him missing them. When this madness had broken out in England they weren't afraid, but saw it as a challenge. That mentality had led to his friends, family and even colleagues getting killed, all of their blood spilt on the floor whilst he remained, since his 'paranoia' had served in his survival. Armed with a shovel, Richard took the nearest plane available, hoping that it was a _28 Days Later _affair. He'd hoped nowhere else was infected.

He was wrong.

India, Russia and China were gone, in addition to key parts of the EU. Brussels had fallen in the first few weeks, so the survivors said, whereas they thought England was safe. He hadn't the heart to tell them – he'd grown a backbone over those few months, but too late to help anyone. They were all dead.

Everyone was dead. It was only him now.

"I'm on a Highway to Hell!" the song blared noisily on his radio, which was a handy tool in such silent conditions, "I'm on a Highway to Hell!" he wasn't afraid of walkers anymore, much less after seeing their 'running', and he'd be far away by the time they reached that road. He only wanted to see the sights before he went away, off to another airport and in another continent. Australia might have some hope...

Blood splattered the road further up, although it wasn't cause for alarm. Richard had admired certain changes in the terrain, certain scars on the trees that warned him, granted that he no longer cared about 'Increased Dead Activity.' If they were in the area, they didn't stand a chance against his car. Not to mention his trusted weapon.

The baby blue sky quickly faded to pink as he continued, barrelling down the road at three times the speed limit, letting the wheels smash over clumsy potholes. It was a do or don't world now – do die, or don't – and he intended to be one of the doers. They had all lost someone and then, after a while of being dead inside, they'd quickly become dead outside. Richard would make sure that didn't happen to him.

"Hm..." his deep voice rumbled as he reached a fence, which had been purposely locked off. A quick scan of the area showed nothing but grasslands, fields that used to mean something, and only served now as a barrier to his freedom. How the Hell was he to get through that? With great iron bars and a barbed wire fringe, it seemed this thing was just the face of taunting, lording its inconvenience over the man. Whoever set this up wanted someone – or something – to die out there.

"Motherfuc—ergh!" how could someone who was probably dead, destroy someone else's day so quickly? Did God just like to kick him when he was down? In addition to the near-crashes he'd experienced, a few plane worries, he'd been subject to a few close encounters with Dead-Ends. Their lifeless eyes still glinted in his dreams, dancing without a soul, whilst his nightmares saw only fire within them.

A few seconds later, he was footing it along the fence. A huge rucksack sat on his broad back as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, since he hadn't adapted to such harsh climates. So used to the customs of England, there wasn't a lot of things he liked about Atlanta. Particularly, the hot sun baking the earth, no matter how inconvenient the rays were.

"I've always wanted to travel the world, and look where it's got me," he grumbled as he trudged through the forest, a contained chaos of still-alive creatures and half-dead maniacs, "No food, no water and now, no car. Fucking wilderness. I think that I'll pick up some Twinkies in the airport."

The leaves crunched underneath his feet as he continued, the grass blades bending to the soft breeze. He saw the scarred tree trunks around him, scratched with the claws of squirrels and teeth of Dead-Ends, whilst he could only smell the stench of blood. It lay spattered against the Cherokee roses, as if a strange memorial service that he'd not attended. They weren't going to be mourning the dead at this rate.

Give it time, and the dead would be mourning them.

"Maybe there'll have some coke. I've got a real craving for something sweet," talking to himself was the only release, since he'd been alone for a while now, "I hope it's not gone flat by now. Will the airport be clear? Suppose I should pick up some guns, just in case. What's that?"

He turned. A noise rumbled in the distance and, when he peered closely, he noticed the trembling of a bush beside him. It shuddered like a madman whilst he watched, equipping the gun on his back.

"Who's there? Dead-End?" as if they could reply, "You'd better get your arse out here, now. I've got half a mind to shoot you now; let's not make that worse, shall we?" the bush stopped trembling for a second and he relaxed, in a hope that they wouldn't return. Meeting insurgents wasn't something that he had in mind, especially not after the Indian groups.

They were some brutal people, even for a group of religious nuts. Oh well – he'd killed a great deal of them, which cleared up some of the mess.

"Dead-End? You there?"

"The fuck is a 'Dead-End?"

Richard jumped backwards, the gun still cocked in his hand, "How the Hell can you talk? You're dead! Get your arse out here!" The bush parted easily, although it only revealed a hillbilly looking man. His medium length brown hair brushed over eyes, a steely blue set of sapphires, and his face was set in a stony expression. If there had been a poster child for contempt, then this man would've been it.

"The fuck is a 'Dead-End,' man?" his voice was layered by a thick accent, "You been sniffing something?"

"Who are you?"

"The accents a little off. Not from Atlanta, are ya?"

"No – not originally. Don't change the damn subject," Richard was getting fed up of this, particularly due to the crossbow aimed at him, "Who, the fuck, are you?"

"Name's Daryl," his reply was anti-climatic, "What's yours?"

The Englishman pondered for a moment. He wanted to shoot this man straight in the face, put a bullet between his eyes and leave; however, he sensed something within those depths. Those steel eyes whispered something, as if they were a hint of safety in this mad world.

"Richard," he growled in reply, "Richard Pullman. Where the Hell did you come from?"


	2. What to Do

Richard sat back in the waning sunlight, wiping a bead of sweat from his slightly tanned forehead. In front of him sat this man, this 'Daryl Dixon,' as he so insisted, who had somehow managed to survive the onslaught. They stared at each other over a slow, crackling fire, which was the custom design of Daryl's own hand and burned on little more than dry sticks.

"You're quiet, for a man with a gun," mentioned the hillbilly whilst Richard stared, "'specially for an Englishman; my pa said you guys loved ta talk."

"We do…we did. That's all changed over at London. Pretty quiet now," he mentioned quietly, remembering the eerie silence of the city he loved, the way the cars stood still and the fliers drifted in the breeze. There was a time when he complained of the noise, the crowds, the smells; they were not God's way, and certainly not the ideal place to raise children.

If only he could see the future, then maybe he wouldn't have worried so much.

"Yeah, but the Brits never cared for people much," a chuckle fell out of his lofty accent, "Way I hear it, I'm surprised you guys even started getting killed. Never been people people, have ya?"

It was Richard's turn to laugh, "No – we've never been too close. Liked to keep apart from each other. There's no sense in making things worse for ourselves, and we never wanted to get close to people; everyone's different, though."

"How'd the Hell you end up in Atlanta?"

"Sheer luck, a lot of near-crashes, petrol worries, plane rides," Richard counted on his fingers, as if his travels required a great deal of precision and thought to recite. It wasn't for the fact he liked them or even found them interesting, but they were the only way he could block out the reality of the world.

"Plane? You fly planes?"

"I've taken a few courses. Only time that I've been on the air by myself…well, after everyone died, I decided that other planes weren't going to be a problem."

Daryl smiled, his rough features contorting, stretching over his solid cheek bones and defined jawline. The flames seemed to lick the very bottom of dirt-covered face and, for a moment, Richard wondered what he had been before doomsday, what life he lived before the Dead-Ends started walking.

It was always nice to get to know a person, especially if they weren't trying to kill him. He shuddered to remember the insurgents.

"Got a group?"

"In Atlanta? No – just making my way to the airport, really."

"The airport? Burned to the ground a while ago, Rich. There's nothing left of it."

Richard froze. His muscles became suddenly rigid as he stared, wondering whether the man actually meant what he said. What did he mean 'burned down'? If that had burnt, there were no other planes around! He'd have to travel hundreds of miles to the nearest airports, which would certainly be overrun by rotting corpses and orgies of dead. Maybe he was lying? Maybe he was trying to make him stay? There had to be some sort of trick to it…

"What?" his voice came out in a choked whisper, as if he had been overcome by intense fear.

Daryl was gentler due to this, although he remained firm in his speech, "It's gone, Richard; everything's been burnt, looted and destroyed. Trapped a load of walkers in there before…well, before blowing up the hangar, and making sure nothing could work again." He frowned again, like there was something off about Richard's story that he'd picked up on, when in reality he didn't like to see people upset.

The Englishman racked his brain for another alternative. He remembered a map he'd found a while ago – on it, there were outlines of celebrity homes, a few dotted sprigs of campsites and on the occasion, a public toilet that would surely be shut off. Could he remember any other airports? He couldn't stay here…

"Not got a place to stay?" Daryl suddenly asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. Richard cocked his head to one side whilst the world outside faded, the blackness around it a demon that would mercilessly destroy everything.

"No. My family in Atlanta live a while away," he sarcastically barked, "'Course I've not got a place to stay! I'm an English person caught in post-apocalyptic America!"

His companion was sympathetic to him, so he didn't make a big deal of his offensive tone, "I've got a group, not too far from here – nice people, not a great set up. We've got an old prison to live in, with a sturdy set of bars and a big yard to fire in. Nice place."

Richard was wary. How could he be sure this 'group' he was talking about was not truly insurgents, who would realise his use and attempt to capture him? He had been used to being taken by people, found out about his medical history and, in a strange twist of events, forced to perform illegal operations or all sorts of human crimes. A sterilised needle would have been his best friend, when he was walking the barren landscapes of India and Russia.

"What's it like?"

"Just told you-"

"Not that," he waved a large hand over the fire, "The landscape. Is there enough space to see what's coming? Enough to move? I need to know."

Daryl cocked a wild eyebrow, "Yeah, there's enough flat land to scope the place. Why?"

"Wouldn't want to outstay my welcome. I'd need to know that I can slip in and out without too much of a problem."

"You don't need ta worry – Rick's a real…" the hillbilly stopped, as it had been a while since his leader thought straight. In fact, now that he thought about it, they'd be mightily upset with Richard's arrival, considering their recent acceptance of Woodbury's citizens. How could he make this seem better? He couldn't leave the man out here to die…

"I won't stay too long; I'll be outside, by myself, so I can see."

With that, he began collecting his things, as if there was a massive operation under way. Daryl suddenly realised that this man wasn't at the level he was, where he'd accepted the reality of the world and was trying to rebuild himself.

How would he react to being a group-man?


End file.
